


Does it Get Better?

by MishiTheP12



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Drabble, Feel-good, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:23:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishiTheP12/pseuds/MishiTheP12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are from 2015, but how you got here is irrelevant right now. Crowds annoy you, and you can hardly cope when you brush paths with ill-tempered people anymore. It feels like it's getting worse with age. </p>
<p>The man badgering the clerk in front of you makes your blood burn, but you are not alone. A stranger watches with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Does it Get Better?

There are certain things that Time, in its steadfast, linear way, cannot change about humanity. We are forever destined to stumble blindly in the night with our curious (and very much volatile) minds. There is nothing that can erase a foul temper flaring over a minor inconvenience from our genetic pool. Granted, 2255 has far less problems than 2015, but from time to time, you catch wind of someone's childish ire of ill-repute.

Your chest tightens. You feel hot all over, and your veins feel as though they are drudging up a million tons of oil per second. You can't help it. This always happens when you're around an angry person. _I'm in my thirties,_ you think to yourself. _It can't be helped. Age isn't as linear as Time._

The "gentleman" in the tan, double-breasted jacket and mismatched "throw-back to the 1990s!" bowler hat--but you know better than to point out gross, historical inaccuracies; people don't like that sort of thing--raises his voice at the clerk whose face matches the vase of roses on the counter beside him. 

He doesn't like the clerk's nervous answer, so he darts his head forward as if looking for a fight, leaning close and then pulling back just as suddenly. He puffs his chest out, and the only thing that's missing from the gesture is two fists thumping the front that awful, double-breasted jacket.

You sense someone step next to you. Good. You won't feel like a creep for watching the show. This person is just as interested. You can tell. You know these things. You cast a quick glance to your left. The newcomer catches your eye and says nothing. You notice the handsome creases of Time gracing his handsome face--

A shout breaks your moment of weakness, and the fashion disaster repeats his threatening chest pump as he rolls to the tip of his toes. The clerk's boss steps in. Security is escorting the denizen of ignorance out a moment later.

Your blood keeps burning as you take a deep breath. His anger coats you like a sick layer of imaginary mucus. 

"Does it get better?" you ask the man next to you; you keep your eyes on the poor clerk who is trying to slink away into the shadows, hoping everyone will just forget what just happened. "The older I get, the worse this gets. I'm too sensitive now, I mean, I can still feel that jerk's temper." He steps in front of you and regards you with a curious frown.

Maybe that was rude. You frown back and fidget, sliding your left foot back and twisting your fingers together. You want to kick yourself; of course pointing out a stranger's age isn't going to go over well! It didn't in 2015, so why would it in 2255?

"It's not age," he answers in a soft tone. Relief sweeps over you. Good. You didn't offend him. You take in his handsome face again and make a mental note of how sharp his black uniform looks on him. You don't know what he is or what government-military-police-who knows branch he belongs to; all of these future uniforms look the same to you.

"What is it, then?" you crack a half smile. "My mind starting its resignation letter?" He smiles back at you and steps closer. You take a secret delight in the heat radiating off of his body--it is instinct and desire.

"More like telling you that you are different--special," he says your name. You arch an eyebrow but then chalk it up to the fact that everyone and their cousin knows about you and the eight unfortunate souls from 2015. "You're a telepath," he continues.

You want to laugh, but his tone...The delicate, yet confident way he said it. You close your eyes and suck in a deep breath. Is he suggesting that the pair of you can read minds? Normally you'd scoff, but...he was...the way he is standing and looking at you, his lovely dark hair, and his large brown eyes...

_{ If you can read minds, what am I thinking? }_ you think. _{ I want you to take me out for a drink. I want someone to spill my guts to-- }_ Your eyes shoot open. That last bit was an accident, but it's not like he can actually read your mind.

"Drinks," he says with a nod, offering his right hand. "You've gone through a lot. I can only imagine," he says your name again. You find yourself taking his hand. "Spill your guts to me," he whispers with a faint smirk. "You can trust me. I'm Al Bester."


End file.
